


Everything Could Change

by mistressminako



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Character Death, Demon Summoning, Imperial Summoning Circle, Incorrect Usage of Holocrons, M/M, Poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 12:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11944071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistressminako/pseuds/mistressminako
Summary: Following the battle of Scarif, Wilhuff Tarkin condemns disgraced Director Orson Krennic to a new type of service to the Empire.





	Everything Could Change

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Demon!Veers AU

The telltale tap of leather jackboots on durasteel centered his attention. Orson Krennic steeled his jaw and raised his chin.

The lock clicked and in stepped a pair of his own death troopers. Strolling behind them, his arms tucked behind him like an old schoolmaster, was Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. The troopers moved to flank his sides and Tarkin came to parade rest right in front of him.

He sat motionless. A cold barrel prodded his shoulder. He kept his eyes fixed on those boots. The worn leather had known the kiss of countless worlds. He’d watched the blood of men and beast alike soak into the leather. He’d licked his own cum from the rough surface. His wrists were raw under the binders. His shoulders ached from being locked into position behind him for so long.

He spat at those boots. His troopers reacted instantly, not even allowing him the satisfaction to see his fluids once again marring Tarkin’s beloved footwear. The butt of an E-11 came down across the back of his head, sending him crashing to the floor.

_He’d felt the heat of the superlaser scorch the air above him._

_Galen Erso had sabotaged the project._

_He lifted his head to stare at the crumpled body of it. Galen and Lyra’s child. The creature that had escaped him so long ago. The harpy that had sealed his fate._

_“Galen…” he croaked, his voice weak and broken. A pair of arms threaded under his shoulders and he was blinded by white-hot pain as the stormtroopers hauled him to his feet._

He woke with a start. Durasteel flooring flowed past him. His custom Ar’tranio leather boots scraping the breaks between floor panels he had designed, which allowed for the changing external pressure caused by the Death Star’s Class-IIV Mark 3 hyperdrive. His lips pulled tight in a congratulatory grimace.

“Awake now?” Tarkin’s voice was cold, his customary politeness clipped and impatient.

“I’m awake,” he looked up, the corners of his mouth lifted in that boyish smile Tarkin loved so much. “Wilhuff.” The name fell from his lips in a breathy sigh. He could see the line of the old fox’s cock through the thick folds of his uniform.

Tarkin’s hand came down across his cheek in a swift and brutal traverse. The force of the blow knocked him sideways, wrenching the shoulder that damned idiot had blown open in his pathetic attempt at heroism.

His scream rang in his ears. His shoulder was a white-hot blaze of agony. His fingers brushed limply against his jodhpurs, clutching reflexively at thin air.

“You talk too much.” Tarkin’s curt dismissal went straight to his cock. A door slid aside into the bulkhead and Tarkin disappeared into the dark hallway. He was dragged in after, unresisting.

The room was full of an assemblage of petty officers. Faceless uniform stuffing that he could have never been bothered to notice. The men were standing in a loose circle. Tarkin casually strolled through their line in his measured officer’s walk. He found himself dragged after and, quite predictably, thrown to the floor. Tarkin hauled him up by his chin until he was kneeling before the man.

This time, he spat blood.

“Oh Orson,” Tarkin breathed, dropping smoothly to one knee. It was then that he became aware of a low murmur. The brainless group of petty officers had closed ranks around them and they were…chanting?

Tarkin jerked his head back to center. That wizened face loomed in front of him like a death’s head.

“Lucky for you, Erso showed his hand too early. We fixed the drift he had coded into the targeting system. I must say, it was very cleverly hidden. Still, I would be a fool to think Erso planted a failure that deep into the mainframe all by himself. Why, the metadata even recorded an officer’s access code.” Tarkin paused to fix him with one of his tight-lipped smiles. “But not your code, of course.”

“Then why are you dragging me through the bowels my battle station?” He snarled, his temper long past its breaking point.

“Because you’re an uncultured whelp who must needs to be reminded of whom he serves.” Tarkin gave him a hard shove. He flailed desperately against the ship’s artificial gravity for an instant before crashing to the floor in a crumpled heap.

His boots were ripped off. Hands unbuckled his belt. An ugly laugh bubbled up in his throat as his pants and briefs were tugged free.

“You’re going to fuck me while your men stand around and watch?” His voice cracked. Black gloved hands hauled him back to his knees. His own men. He turned his rage on Tarkin’s smugly smiling face.

“Are you so insecure in your masculinity that you’re jealous of Galen’s corpse?” A bitter chuckle bubbled up in his throat as he fought against the iron-clad hold of his men.

Tarkin kneeled down and brushed his cheek tenderly. Against his better judgement, he leaned into the touch.

“That’s better.” Tarkin leaned in, pressing warm lips against his own. A whimper escaped his throat and he licked Tarkin’s lips hungrily.

Then the old fox dug a thumb into his shattered shoulder.

He jerked back, inhaling sharply. There were any one of a hundred curses on his lips as he blinked through the red haze of seething hatred. Tarkin was dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief. He drew in a shuddering breath.

“You think I helped Galen?” He rasped, throat suddenly tight. He watched as Tarkin removed the stopper from a glass vial and downed its contents. The man gave an exaggerated sigh of delight and handed the vial off to one of his officers.

“In fact, Orson. Whether you helped him or not is none of my concern. I am in charge of this battle station now, meaning you have lost your purpose.” Tarkin dropped to one knee again, a slight smile playing on his lips. “But I have graciously convinced the Emperor that you have more to offer his Empire.”

Tarkin opened his hand, producing a small glowing pyramid. “A Sith Holocron. The Jedi and Sith have used these for centuries to record their knowledge and pass it on to those who are deemed worthy.” He watched as Tarkin took the device in both hands and gave it a cruel twist. There was a loud click from inside the device.“Pathetic superstitions of a dead religion.”

His chest seized. He gasped for breath though there was little enough air making it into his swollen throat.

“Relax, Orson.” Those bony, gnarled hands reached out to pet his own greying hair. “The poison works fast.”

He jerked in his restraints, fighting to relax his throat. The device in Tarkin’s hand began to glow as the low chanting around them increased in volume. A sickly green smoke rose from the cursed thing and he watched in horror as Tarkin breathed deeply, inhaling the smoke into his lungs.

Tarkin’s eyelids fluttered and he watched in muted horror as thin veins of green rose in Tarkin’s face and neck. Tarkin’s lips pulled back, face twisting into something inhuman as he leaned in. Cracked, cold lips pressed against his own.

The world brightened for a second as Tarkin forced the tainted air into his lungs. The smell of smoke burned his nose and his mouth tasted like ash. His nerves were buzzing even as his chest heaved from lack of air. Tarkin pulled away and he slumped forward in the troopers grip as a black void slowly closed in around him.

_He’d never asked where they took Galen’s body._

_He had his life’s work to oversee. He couldn’t have been bothered by the mortal shell that had barely contained Galen’s brilliance. The Rebellion had come to take Galen, and so he had done his duty to the Empire and eliminated Galen rather than allow him to fall to enemy hands. What happened to the body he’d run his hands over countless times was no longer his concern._

_A pilot. One AWOL pilot had brought the galaxy down around him. Such an insignificant distraction had created the opening for Tarkin to seize the battle station out from under him. His anger roiled, filling his chest and spreading down his limbs._

His eyes snapped open and he gave voice to the formless, white-hot rage within him. The roar that came forth made his throat ache but the sound brought with it a queer sense of satisfaction. He roared again and the sound filled the chamber, doubling and echoing with unnatural harmony.

Every muscle, every nerve, every _cell_ of his body pulsed with agonizing pain. He was lying on his side, bound on a cold durasteel floor. He writhed, testing bonds now at his elbows and ankles.

“Really, Orson. Must you make a scene?” The veneer of Core world polish scraped at his ears and his head whipped towards the voice.

“Release me!” He snarled, unsurprised to find Tarkin settling down beside him. The man reached out a hand and he snapped at it.

He should have been ready for the backhand across his already bruised cheek.

“Now listen here, boy. You are my creature to command as I see fit. You will obey me.” Tarkin’s breath stank of sulphur. With a resigned chuff, he nodded his acquiescence.

“Good boy.” Tarkin’s smug sense of self-satisfaction rolled off him in waves as he reached out again. Those withered fingers combed through his hair, and he found himself pressing into the touch.

Tarkin’s movements shifted and he jerked with a gasp as long fingers curled around something attached to his skull. Tarkin’s fingers rubbed along the ridged protuberance, helping shed the bloody velvet that clung to the twisted horns rising up from his nest of grey-brown hair.

He moaned as his exposed cock twitched against the cold floor. Tarkin’s low chuckle only added a delicious layer of shame to the arousal and confusion that swirled inside him. He filled his lungs with recycled air, enjoying the way it cooled the fire pulsing through his veins.

“Oh yes. I think you’ll prove very useful to the Empire in this new form,” Tarkin murmured in his ear as he pressed a chaste kiss to the base of one of his horns. “Very useful, indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Krennic's horns are Kudu.


End file.
